


II. Tell the Wolves I'm Home

by swoledor_clegainz



Series: The North Remembers [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle for the north, Canon Divergence, DID I MENTION AGED UP AU, Duality of Sandor Clegane, F/M, Gravedigger Theory, M/M, aged up AU, book and show canon mix, the ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) storm cometh, the pack survives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-09-23 01:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17071109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swoledor_clegainz/pseuds/swoledor_clegainz
Summary: A dog makes amends and a young wolf returns to her den as the Battle for the North looms on the horizon.





	1. Sandor I

 

_Sandor_

This was a bitter, tormented soul, a sinner who mocked both gods and men. He served but found no pride in service. He fought but took no joy in victory. He drank to drown his pain in a sea of wine. He did not love, nor was he loved himself. It was hate that drove him. Though he committed many sins he never sought forgiveness. Where other men dream of love, or wealth or glory, this Hound dreamed of slaying his own brother, a sin so terrible it makes one shudder to speak of it. Yet it was the bread that nourished him, the fuel that kept his fires burning. Ignoble as it was, the hope of seeing his brother's blood upon his blade was all that sad and angry creature lived for...and even that was taken from him when Prince Oberyn of Dorne stabbed Ser Gregor with a poisoned spear. 

That, however, was then. This is now. 

The Hound is dead. It lived within the man Sandor Clegane, who now is at rest upon these green shores. 

⤝ ⤞

The steady rain had nearly swept the blood from the grass, and the ground had turned to a miserable, squelching muck that grasped desperately at every step; and yet, at the peak of the green hill that overlooked the quiet dale, the man called Sandor Clegane dug the thirty-seventh of fifty-two graves. The dun-and-brown scarf of a fallen septon hung about his broad shoulders and covered his head, shrouding his face in darkness. Every scrap of the shovel was a lonely, solemn sound, every open blister on his weathered hands a reminder. 

_We ask the Smith to strengthen our backs, so we may finish the work required of us._

With a grunt, he lifted the last of the red dirt from the grave and stabbed the shovel into the earth. Letting it stand, he turned and limped down the hill. There are the foot, he had swaddled the villagers and brothers in whatever he could find and set each carefully aside. Once full of life and earnest, they were now no more than silent rows of sodden shapes, laid beneath tarps and cloaks and bedsheets and tents. Slaughtered as they now slept, awaiting their eternal rest beneath the earth. 

 

⤝ ⤞

Pleasant music drifted from the pavilion nearby, merrily alight in the evening murk. The beating of great drums, the drag of the fiddles, the jolly shrill sound of the pipes - he'd heard the tune many a time before in his youth, a lively Westerlands jig, when he would sneak from his father's hall to the town below the keep. The villagers danced two by two, laughing, clapping, and stepping in time as the good brothers watched from the rushes. Truth be told, there was not much to celebrate, there in their little settlement - but a marriage, a bright spot so rare in the gloom that had settled over the Riverlands following Lord Hoster's death, would certainly suffice. What was life without such jollity anyway, but work and sleep. 

Sandor stood sentinel upon the hill nearby as a fire burned beside him, his arms crossed, staring up at the stars that glistened bright against the night sky. His eyes sought out familiar constellations, out of pure habit: The Warrior's Swordbelt, stretching ever east towards the Vale, and the twinkling twin diamonds that formed the Eyes of Irogenia. And there, at the center, the great star of the north - The Crone's Lantern. Its wavering light had once guided him, as a boy, riding alone from the gates of Clegane's Keep to the craggy mountain range of Lannisport and, at last, Casterly Rock. 

Brother Ray was making his way steadily up the hill, still breathless and laughing from the festivities below. "You should join us, Clegane!" He called when he was near. "Nothing like a good shindy when the work's been hard!" 

Sandor only grunted in response, not bothering to meet his gaze. The flickering light of the fire played upon the hard planes of his face. 

"And why not?" the old septon chuckled, his rough spun robes stretching tight across his belly. "Don't know how to dance? Is such  _frivolity_ too knightly for the Mad Dog of the Saltpans?" 

Sandor winced at the moniker. "'Course I know how to bloody dance," he growled. "I was a Lannister man for ten years." 

Ray shrugged. "Why not join us, then? We'd be happy for the company." 

"They don't want me there." Sandor's eyes fell upon the lively celebration, the new bride and groom smiling and carrying on amongst their friends. In another life, a life without burning braziers and boy-kings, it might have been him. "I frighten them, remember?" 

"Well if you're going to act a right grouchy old bear, they will be," said Ray, lifting a thick brow. Then, sighing, he turned out to face the night beside him, squinting up at the sky. The music turned and then carried on, soft in the distance, and at once the night did not seem as murky. 

"What are you watching for?" 

"Don't know." Sandor grunted. "Habit, I 'spose." 

The old septon reached up and laid a knobbed hand upon Sandor's shoulder. "C'mon, son," he coaxed, smiling. "You've been working all day. Come. Sit. Rest. Talk with me. You're no good to us asleep on your feet." 

Sandor sighed in resignation, and with one last glance at the sky, turned to follow. 

"You got any ale, old man?" Sandor quipped, as they started down the hill together. 

The septon only chuckled. 

" _Aha!_ " Brother Rawney shouted when they entered the pavilion (Sandor ducking low so as to not strike his head on a low beam), and raised a weathered hand in drunken greeting. "I see the Lord Dog has decided to grace us with his presence." He had once been a Tully man-at-arms, in his prime; a sure shot with a bow and a force to be reckoned with a lance and horse. Now in his age, he had devoted his life to the faith - a stout, barrel-chested old timer with a voice gravelly with decades of pipe smoke and fine ale. He'd seen five winters in his lifetime, and Sandor often thought that he looked it. He'd once given him a run for his silver in the King's Tourney, when he was only a boy of ten and five; but the slippery old fish had managed to unseat him nonetheless, right into a puddle of mud and horseshit. 

Sandor shuffled forward, nodding his head stiffly and chosing a rickety stool beside him, dwarfing everyone nearby as he hunched upon the seat. Rawney, who barely came up to his elbow, laughed heartily and clapped him on the back. "There's a boy!" 

"M'not a boy," Sandor grumbled, and Ray shoved a plate of mutton beneath his nose. 

"Ah, you're a boy to me. You and Gillam, both of ye. What are ye, lad, twenty?" 

"Twenty and nine." 

"Oh-ho, color me surprised. Ye sulk like a green boy, I just assumed ye were one." 

"Leave him be, Rawney." said Ray, raising a brow - though he could not hide the amusement twinkling in his blue eyes. 

"I once knew a green boy in the service of Lord Edmure. Had eleven toes and three- "

"Don't spoil his appetite with one of your  _war_ _stories._ Go on, leave him be." 

"Alright, alright," he raised his hands in surrender. "I know where I'm not welcome. I'll go see if I can scare up some more of that...water." With a boisterous belch, he disappeared into the crowd. 

Ray watched him go, chuckling. "Rawney's always good for a laugh." Then, eyeing Sandor, "And he means well." 

Sandor nodded, swallowing. "Aye. 'Course he does. He and I have that in common. Or is it that we both prefer to be blind drunk at every waking moment?" 

Ray laughed heartily.

⤝ ⤞

"' _Seven save you, friends',"_ Sandor scoffed as Ray approached, swinging the axe. "Bloody nance." 

"I'm a fucking septon. What was I supposed to say?" 

"They don't believe in your seven," Sandor grunted. "They're from the brotherhood. They follow the Red God." 

"Aye, well,  _all_ are welcome here in our little village. And anyway," Ray sat heavily on a nearby stump, groaning. "Begging brothers have nothing for knights or brotherhoods." 

Sandor smirked, dropping the axe to bend and heft another log onto the block. "Of course you do. You've got food, you've got steel - even if you say you don't." With a grunt of effort, he brought the axe down again. "And you've got  _women._ They're called the Brotherhood for a reason. They're all -  _unh -_ mad for it. And they won't hesitate to kill for they believe is rightfully theirs." 

"What would have me do, Clegane?" Ray squinted up at the swiftly setting sun, sitting back and resting his palms on his knees. "Fight them?" Sandor paused, and reached for his handkerchief. Panting, he wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. "Kill them, then?" 

Sandor sighed deeply, raising his hands in ire. 

"It'd be you against all of them," Ray groaned as he got to his feet. "These people - our brothers. They're leptons, farmers. Hunters.  _Fishermen,_ Clean. They don't know how to fight." 

"Aye," said Sandor, pointing the axe. "But you and Rawney  _do._ " 

Ray lowered his eyes to the grassy ground, shaking his head. "We're done with fighting. The both of us." 

Sandor furrowed his brow. "Even if it's to protect yourself? To protect all of these people?" 

"Violence is a disease," the old septon said, voice low. "You don't cure a disease by spreading it to more people." 

Sandor shook his head, returning to his work. "You don't cure it by dying, either." 

The old man regarded him, his golden seven-pointed star gleaming in the dusk light that streamed over the peaks of the sentinels. 

"You've done enough work for today," he said at last, smiling warmly and gesturing over his shoulder. "Come on up for some supper. Brother Gillam's made beef and barley stew." 

"It's going to be a cold night," Sandor replied. The axe split through the log like a knife to butter, sending wood tumbling to the ground, joining the steadily growing pile around him. "We'll need firewood." 

Ray turned, walking backwards, and called out to him. "I'll save you a bowl, then, lad!" Then, managing a mischievous grin, "Might be Brother Rawney and I  _do_ have some ale hidden away, somewhere." 

At that, a small smile spread over Sandor's face. 

He worked tirelessly until nightfall, until screams cut through the stillness of the forest. 

They hung Ray from the higher most rafters of the sept. Sweet Gillam beneath him, his throat slit ear to ear - and old Rawney, laid bent and broken, his arms cast over a woman still holding her child. The villagers they rode down and slaughtered like wild game, still in their night things. Arrows sprouted from the ground like weeds, and blood pooled like red wine, spilled upon the ground as thunder rumbled above.

Sandor fell to his knees. 

There were no heavens. Only hells. 

⤝ ⤞

With a grunt of pain, he knelt beside a small white bundle of linens. Closing his eyes, he laid a large hand over the child, and began to mutter a clumsy prayer to the seven gods he wasn't certain existed. It only seemed right;  _penance,_ he thought. 

_ I was not there to protect you. Woe to the fuckers if I had been.  _

It was another day and another night until he finished his solitary task, never stopping to eat, never stopping to rest but to lean heavily on the shovel, with only the rain to keep him company. It never left, it seemed, unwelcome as it was. 

In the woods, he graced himself against a blue soldier pine standing guard above the remains of the little village he'd come to know as home. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, his hair long and hanging, sopping wet, about his scarred face. Reaching up, he lowered his hood, and let the rain wash over him. 

His breathing came heavily, his fist clenched and his head hung low, pressed against the bark.

The eyes were what haunted him. 

Eyes whose light he'd taken himself, and those who he had failed to protect. 

Pulling his fist back, he brought it down hard upon the tree. Pain seared through his arm, yet he did it again. And again. In seconds he was shouting in rage, savagely beating his fists bloody against the tree, splintering the bark where he struck and cursing the seven gods, the drowned god, the red god, all of the gods of Westeros and Essos and beyond. At last his pace slowed, and his shoulders rose and fell with every deep breath he took. Blood dripped steadily from his knuckles, his hands shaking. 

As he turned away from the hill of graves, looming in the distance, his eyes fell upon the axe - wedged deep into a stump. 

_Violence is like a disease...you don't cure a disease by spreading it to more people._

"No," he muttered to himself, squinting up at the sky. "But seven damn me if I'm to let them walk free." 

Exhaling through his nose, he limped deeper into the woods. His large hand closed over the hilt of the axe as he passed, yanking it free - and hefted it over his shoulder. 

⤝ ⤞

The work was hard and the days long, yet he had a purpose, a debt. A debt that, for once, he was happy to repay. Four moons had passed now, since he awoke from a nightmare to find himself here, in a dream of green. The begging brothers had taken him in, lifting him from the cliffside onto their oxen cart, tipping milk of the poppy to his lips and applying poultices to his wounds and even his scars, setting his leg in oak splints until it at last mended. The leg was lame, now, but Sandor was _alive;_ alive as he ever had been, and he owed his life to their kindness, spared by some guise of grace once more. So repay them he did, the only way he knew.

He did not hear the girl approach, only caught a glimpse of her dyed blue skirts in the corner of his eye, moving steadily towards him up the hill.

“Seven save you,” she said brightly.

Sandor looked over his shoulder at her, dislodging the axe, and nodded curtly. “Seven save you.”

In her hands, he saw, she held a horn of water. She extended it to him, smiling.

“The sun is hot today, ser,” she said, glancing up. “I thought you may have a thirst.”

Sandor straightened, regarding her skeptically as his chest rose and fell. The villagers, despite their relative politeness, had never bothered to hide their apprehension of he and his…deformity. This one did not seem to hold any such qualms. He limped forward, inclining his head in silent thanks and taking the horn from her hands. As she watched, he brought it to his lips and drank deeply.

She was a young thing, small, with large grey eyes that peered curiously at him from hollow, gaunt sockets. Her hair was dark, braided and pinned into a wispy halo.

When he finished, he muttered his thanks and handed the horn back to her. Yet she lingered in silence, watching him as he returned to his work.

“You talk sometimes,” she said at last. “In the nights.” 

“Mmph.”

“I hear you in your tent. Moaning in your sleep.” There was silence for a time, as Sandor swung the axe with a grunt of effort, driving it into the wood. The lass idly fingered her apron, studying him diligently, and then spoke once more.

“Who is she?” 

Sandor glanced up from his work. “Who?”

“Arya.”

He raised his eyes to look at the girl, grinding his jaw.

“No One.”

 

⤝ ⤞

She always visited him in the nights; a wisp of smoke in his outstretched hands, a soft voice on the edge of his dreams. Asleep or awake, awake or asleep - in the darkness and incertitude of the small hours, Sandor never could tell the difference.

“ _Arya…_ ”

Small, cool hands untied his tunic and caressed his chest; soft kisses, pressed gently to his bottom lip, his burns, his whiskers. His own hands slid up her arms, trailing his fingers, enclosing her tiny hands in his own.

“This is a dream,” he murmured against her lips.

“Then it is a _good_ dream,” she breathed, and no sound had ever been as sweet.

Somewhere in the night, a babe would cry. 

⤝ ⤞

Guffawing laughter and the sweet smell of smoke lured him further into the old wood, towards a clearing where he could see a campfire alight, flickering in the cool afternoon shade. _Dumb fucks didn’t even ride a day away before settling down._ Listening intently to the din, he reckoned there to be about four or five at the camp, give or take. _I should tread carefully,_ he thought - he had no mail, no pauldrons. Nordid he have his dirk and greatsword. Just the axe at his side, clenched in his bare fist so tightly that his bloodied knuckles were white.

A primal need to exterminate overrode all prior cautions, and he soon found his feet propelling him forward without another thought.

 _“Got off on that did you, you old fuck!?_ ” A green boy was shouting, yanking his trousers back up over his bare backside.

It was seconds later when they spotted Sandor stomping confidently towards their camp; seconds too late for their young comrade. With a roar he swung the axe, slicing the boy’s head clean off. It fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

The second boy had leapt up - a pity. Sandor drove the axe into his chest, ripping it free to swing it around with surprising agility, cutting a red swath across the third man’s neck. Both fell to the ground, convulsing and choking upon their life’s blood. Growling, he whipped around and brought the axe up between the last man’s legs with a powerful underhand swing.

The bald cunt fell to his knees, dropping his weapon, and Sandor slapped a huge hand onto his head to hold him up. A familiar pendant gleamed upon his chest, tied by a simple leather cord: the seven-pointed star of the seven. Snarling, he yanked it free.

“Where’s the other one?” Sandor growled. “With the yellow cloak.”

“FUCK YOU!” He spat, and Sandor smirked, looking down at him.

“Those your last words, ‘fuck you?’ C’mon. You can do better than that.” His voice was dangerously quiet.

“ _C…Cunt!_ ” The man’s eyes were wide with fear.

Sandor frowned. “You’re shit at dying, you know that?” With one last guttural roar, he brought the axe down upon the man’s head.

Lowering his weapon, Sandor raised the heavy pendant dangling in his fist, splattered with blood. It glinted gold, catching the sunlight. _I am sorry, old man._ Dutifully, he tied it about his neck, tucking it safely beneath the neck of his tunic. _You deserved better._

He had been walking for an hour when more commotion drew his attention. He turned his head towards it, listening. There were distant shouts and the unmistakable sound of trees being felled, accompanied by the alluring smell of smoke and meat cooking. _Meat._ He had not eaten in two days.

In a river clearing, a small crowd stood clustered around a low-hanging branch as others, who had climbed the tree, looped ropes around three men standing upon logs beneath it. One of them, Sandor saw with a start, was the rotund outlaw with the yellow cloak about his shoulders. Abandoning all hesitation, he grasped his axe and limped forward.

“ _Oi!_ ” he whistled with two fingers, cutting through the din. The men whipped around, hands closing tight upon the battered hilts of their swords. Sandor recognized them immediately, his heart falling.

“Clegane,” said Beric, raising his brow.

“What th’ _fuck_ are you doing here?” said Thoros.

Sandor nodded his head towards the three men, nooses tied around their necks. “Chasing those cunts. You?” 

“ _Hanging_ those cunts.” said Thoros.

“Any particular reason?”

“They were once our men, but no more. They attacked a nearby sept and murdered the villagers.” Beric replied, hooking his thumbs on his swordbelt. “What is your business with them?”

“Same reason. I was helping build it. They and four other cunts killed a friend of mine. A band of begging brothers, and fifty other unarmed faithfuls.”

Thoros took a swig from his wineskin, belching. “You’ve got friends? Astounding.”

“Not anymore.” Sandor hefted his axe, limping forward. “They’re mine.”

Beric seeped between them, brow lowered forbiddingly. “It’s the Brotherhood’s good name they’ve dragged through the dirt.” 

“Fuck your ‘good name’,” Sandor growled, jutting his chin out. “You saw to that when you decided to gallivant about the countryside, robbing and razing and handing out those nancy little notes.”

“Regardless,” said Beric.

“They’re _mine._ ” Sandor lowered his head to the lord’s level, grinding his voice in menance. He would be damned if the one-eyed fool would get in his way again. “Killed you once before, Dondarrion. Happy to do it again.”

Beric chuckled, and one of his archers drew an arrow, aiming it squarely at Sandor’s head.

“Drop that arrow, you bloody girl,” said Sandor, eyes locked onto Beric’s. He raised his axe and pointed it at the green boy. “Tougher girls than you have tried to kill me.” And it was true.

Beric’s good eye roved from the archer to the towering warrior before him. “You can have _one_ of them, Clegane.”

Sandor looked at the men in nooses, and then back at Beric, thinking of the piles of corpses, the blood - _all of that blood_ \- flowing down the hill with the rush of the rainwater. Ray, swinging slowly from the rafters of the sept he had labored so hard for so many nights to build. Gillam, barely ten and six, lying motionless in a pool of his life’s blood. And a small, white bundle, not yet three feet tall, cradled limply in his arms. _Penance._ He raised a large hand to his chest, laying it over the comforting weight of the pendant beneath his tunic.

“ _Two_ of them.”

Thoros met Beric’s gaze, and then nodded.

“Fine.” 

Sandor stomped over to the first of the men, glaring spitefully up into his face. With a roar, he bared his teeth and raised the axe.

Thoros caught it by the handle mid-swing, and the outlaw whimpered in fear. “ _Nooooo_ no no no. We’re not butchers. We hang them.” 

Sandor looked annoyed, lowering his axe. “Hanging? _Piss on that!_ It’s all over an instant, where’s the punishment in that?” 

Thoros raised a thin eyebrow. “They die.”

“We all bloody die,” Sandor scoffed. “‘Cept this one here.” He jerked his head towards Beric, and then sighed. “I’ll only gut one of ‘em.” 

“No.”

“Chop off one hand.” He looked incredulous.

“We gave you two of three out of respect for your loss.” Beric quipped. “That’s quite generous.”

Sandor regarded him, biting his lip, and then threw the axe to the ground, muttering. “Bunch of nancies.” He looked up at the doomed men, shaking his head. “There was a time I would have killed all seven of you just to gut these three.”

“You’re getting older, Clegane,” drawled Thoros.

“Aye,” Sandor ran a hand through his hair. “But he’s not.” He kicked the log out from under the first man, who thrashed wildly and turned purple as he choked.

“ _Please_ ,” said the second man, the one in the piss yellow cloak, practically sobbing. “Please, I’ll do anyth - _hRRK -_ ” Sandor shoved the log from beneath his feet with a glare, staring him in the eye as he struggled. With a deep scowl, Beric finished off the third.

Sandor watched until their thrashing and convulsing had at last stilled, their lips blue and eyes unmoving. Leaning down, he clutched the yellow cloak in his hand, letting the smooth material run through his fingers. _Three black dogs. On a field of gold._ It had been long since he wore the colors of his house, since he saw the banner streaming proudly above his father’s keep. He had once been ashamed of his name. No more.

_The Hound is dead._

He ripped the cloak, tearing a long strip from it, and began to wrap it around his sword palm, weaving it through his fingers and tying it at the wrist. He flexed his hand gingerly, making a fist, and looked up into the poor fucker’s unseeing eyes.

Spitting on the ground, he pried his gaze away and turned his back, folding his arms. “You lot got anythen’ to eat?”

⤝ ⤞

He sat heavily and wolfed down the meat as Beric watched him, smirking across the flames. _Always seems to be smug, this one. As if he has it all figured out._

Thoros soon joined them, sauntering over in that sardonic way he set about doing anything that wasn’t drinking. “Enjoying yourself?” A wineskin, as always, was clutched in his linen-wrapped hand.

Sandor gestured with the bone, throwing it over his shoulder. “I’d prefer chicken.”

The priest smiled genially and offered Sandor the skin. He took it, drinking deeply.

“You ought to join us, Clegane,” said Beric, after some silence. “We could use you. And your…strength.”

Sandor swallowed, a grin spreading across his scarred face. “Tried joining. Didn’t work out for me.” He gestured vaguely.

“And yet,” Thoros grunted. “We’re hear for a reason.” He turned his head towards Beric. “The Lord of Light is keeping Beric alive for a reason. He gave a failed, drunk priest the power to bring him back for a reason.” He leaned forward. “R’hllor brought _you_ back, Clegane. _For a reason._ We’re part of something larger than ourselves.”

Sandor smirked, belching. “Half the ‘orrible shit in this world gets done for something ‘larger than ourselves’,” he raised an eyebrow, then stood and crossed over to the edge of the river, unlacing his trousers and making to take a piss.

“Cold winds are rising in the North.” Beric called.

“And you’re going to stop them?” Sandor said over his shoulder.

“We need good men - _strong men_ \- to help us.”

Sandor smirked, replacing his manhood in his trousers. “Last time you saw me you wanted to execute me.”

“True enough,” said Beric. “But the Lord of Light gave strength to your sword. Gave you the power to defeat me. Why?”

Sandor turned, laughing his raspy laugh. “I beat you ‘cause I’m better than you, Beric.” He walked over to the camp, lacing his trousers. “I was better than you before you started yammering on about the Lord.” With a grunt, he sat once more. “And…I’m better than you now. Even with a bum leg.”

Beric smiled. “Aye, you’re probably right. You’re a _fighter,_ Clegane.” He leaned forward in earnest. “You were _born_ fighter. You walked away from a fight. How did that go?” 

Sandor worried his lip, brow lowering.

Beric sat back. “Good n’bad. Young n’old. The things we’re fighting will destroy them all alike…but. You can still help a lot more than you’ve harmed, Clegane. It’s not too late for you.”

A pair of piercing grey eyes flashed before his vision, a small voice whispering his name.

After a moment, Sandor shook his head as if to clear it, sighed, and stood.

“What fucking else am I to do, then? Might as well ride with you two pillow-biters.”

Beric looked pleased at this answer, tight-lipped and giving a curt nod of his head. _I will regret this, I know._

“Before you do that, Clegane,” The old priest stood, rummaged behind him, and pressed a bucket with a dirk and a square of soap into Sandor’s empty hands. “Do us all a favor and _bathe._ You smell of horseshit and death.”

⤝ ⤞

 

He found a shaded, secluded spot down the river bank, where the water quietly lapped at the shore and the chilling breeze sighed through the trees. He laid the ‘fresh’ clothing the priest had scrounged up for him upon a nearby rock, and peeled his tunic from his aching back. Unlacing his trousers, he stepped out from them and swiped up the bucket, wading naked waist deep into the cool water. Sighing in appreciation, he splashed the water upwards, washing himself vigorously of the mud and the blood that had accumulated on his vengeful warpath though the woods.

When the soap had formed suds all over his hulking form, he dunked the bucket deep underwater and brought it up, dumping it over his head to rinse and let the water wash over him. Throwing the bucket back in to float beside him, he shook his head like a wet dog, water flying everywhere, and pushed back his long hair with his hands. Reaching down, he unsheathed the dirk and regarded it. His own brown eye stared back at him, reflected in the polished metal surface.

Gripping the hilt tightly, he gathered up his thick, dark mane into a tail and sliced it swiftly away.

Hair fell about him and peppered his shoulders as he sheared his hair nearly down to his scalp, and then began to scrape the edge of the blade along his chin, diligently shaving away his bushy beard until only scruff remained.

Briefly, he glimpsed his reflection in the water. He barely recognized it, these days: Clean. Shaven. Sad. The golden star gleamed, heavy upon his bare chest.

“The Hound is dead,” he told his reflection.

And he would keep saying it, until he at last believed it.


	2. Arya I

_Arya_

 

In the night she dreamed the dream she hated, the one where she had two feet instead of four. In that one she was always looking for her mother, stumbling through a wasted land of mud and blood and fire. It was always raining in that dream, and she could hear her mother screaming, but a monster with a dog's head would not let her go save her. In that dream she was always weeping, like a frightened little girl.

The monster would hold her in his arms, and only then would she realize that he was not a monster at all. 

⤝ ⤞

Braavos was everything Arya had imagined since the day she sailed beneath the Titan; and so very much more. The low, sprawling city was one of the world's busiest ports, its bustling harbor a fantastic clash of color and noise and strange, enticing smells. Wine casks, ale barrels, and baskets of sour leaf and strange gambling dens lined the wide cobbled street, accompanied by steaming bathhouses and ornate temples to gods she'd never heard of; and temples of another sort, where the courtesans roamed, bare-breasted and perfumed. Warlocks and mongers alike mingled with the crowd, shouting and bartering exotic striped furs and spices, going about their business with little regard for a small woman in her needle. The waterfront was one huge, central marketplace where the buying, selling, and trading went on through the day and night. Weathered old washerwomen balanced baskets of fine fabrics upon their silver heads with ease, weaving expertly through the crowd, and old men, bent and hunched with the weight of their work, sold dream wine and ice milk from large stone canisters slung over their backs. Sailors from every nation near and far sauntered through the bazaar, drinking strong liquor and blathering away in strange tongues as the harbor bells tolled in the distance, signaling the early evening arrivals. The large red sun sunk low over the horizon, and the hazy air smelled of the ocean - of salt, of fish and spices, of incense, smoke, and, of course, piss. 

Arya inhaled deeply, and smiled in spite of herself, letting the clamor of the crowd wash over her. She strolled down the weathered stone steps that led to the docks, searching the sea of drunken, reddened faces lit by lantern light. Soon, she found what she was looking for. 

"He's not a lying man," the captain rasped, leaning close to his companion and almost spilling his wine across the table. "He says the Iron Fleet's in Slaver's Bay. And I'm inclined to believe him. I'm not going anywhere  _near_ those mad fuckers. " He took a swig from his horn, laughing raucously. 

Arya approached the men, her hands clasped coolly behind her back. "You're Westerosi." 

The old captain paused, raising a thin eyebrow and regarding her from the corner of his rheumy eye. "And what do you care?" 

"I want to book passage home." 

He turned in his chair, giving her a once over as he stroked his long, white beard; her rough spun tunic, baggy trousers, patched heeled boots, and the ill=fitting cloak of a man long dead. "Hrm." He grunted, smirking. "Can't afford it." He promptly turned his back to her, his companion chuckling.

With a  _thunk,_ Arya tossed a sack of silver onto the table before him, scattering his meal and sending his plate spinning. Shoulders hunched in surprise, he shot her a glare before opening the purse and reaching inside to inspect the coins. Rolling them in his knobby fingers, he sighed. "Where'd you steal this from?" 

Arya smiled sweetly. " _What do you care?"_

The porter chuckled deeply, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "We leave in three days," he said, not bothering to meet her gaze again. "You can have a hammock in steerage." 

She threw a second, heavier sack upon the table, spilling the horn of wine in his lap. "I want a cabin. And we leave at dawn." As she passed, she plucked both sacks of silver from his bewildered grasp. "See you at sunrise, captain." She slipped deftly into the crowd before he could open his mouth to protest. 

It was almost fully dark before she came across the lonely sept, hidden away in a winding alley street. Septs were hard to come by, here in the east: few, and as far between as their disciples. As she stared up at it, she found herself wondering if it had a name. If it did, its septon had taken that knowledge with him when he abandoned it, leaving nothing but the melted candles in their iron sconces.

Her lady mother had once prayed to these gods, a lifetime ago. 

Father. Warrior. Smith. Mother. Maiden. Crone.

Stranger.

Arya, for all her careful education, had never understood it. She never _felt_ anything, there in the septs with their high vaulted ceilings and loud, lofty septons telling tales of gods among men. She had not _felt_ anything, kneeling before the heart tree and whispering to her father’s gods with their eyes weeping blood.

Yet now, she felt _everything._

Inside, the seven walls were high and cracked, crumbling in dusty ruins. _God is one_ , her mother had taught her, as she herself had learned when she was a girl. W _ith seven aspects, as the sept is a single building with seven walls._ Each balanced and supported the other, and the building stood strong, a symbol of the faith. In King’s Landing, the Great Sept of Baelor was lavish, a shining beacon that represented the supposed wealth and power of the city itself. There were great marble statues that dwarfed all who stood beneath them, and a splendid altar to each of the seven, etched in gold and inlayed with precious stones. Here, in Arya’s little refuge, she found only rough hewn stones, their faces carved inexpertly, almost as an afterthought.

She should not have been there. Yet there she was.

Outside, the city slept, save for the braying of dogs and occasional scuffle from the taverns and brothels that could be found on every corner. Otherwise, the salty night air was quite still. The gods, as ever, looked placidly down upon her, silently standing judge. The Father, bearded and just above all. The Mother, protective and pensive. The Smith, heavy of brow and grasping his hammer, who mended that which was broken. The Warrior, ever vigilant. The Crone, old and wise, casting her lantern light for all to see through the darkness. The Maiden, eternally youthful, eternally beautiful. And the Stranger, neither man nor woman, its face a shapeless mass crowned in skulls.

Striking a match against the stone, Arya ignored all others for the far wall, and knelt before the Mother.

Flickering in the light of the candle she held, the vague stone carving could have been anyone. Briefly she glimpsed her own mother: the soft, high features. Tully blue eyes, crinkled in laughter. And long, red hair in flowing ringlets, as the Red Fork of Riverrun.

 _She always knew exactly what to do,_ Arya thought, remembering her soft hands, her tired smile. _What would she say to me now?_

A sudden gust of wind made the light and shadows dance upon the high white walls, over the carving of the Warrior. So familiar a face: broad, handsome, and stoic as he kept his eternal guard, his sword resting beneath his chin.

It had been eight moons since she last laid with the Hound, and eight moons since she last had her blood.

She had hidden the fact carefully, deftly, wearing her uniform loose and tying her rope belt beneath her breasts. In training, she found herself guarding her abdomen fiercely from her sparring partner’s strikes. She could not be with child. No One could _not_ be with child. It simply would not do. So she played the game of faces day and night, and took each in stride, electing to cross every bridge only as she came to it. And it had come to this.

No One was no one. But Arya Stark, of Winterfell, was pregnant with The Hound’s pup.

Her first thought was to see a doula in the city, one of the wise old medicine women, and end the ordeal before it went further. Before she became attached.

No, Arya was never one for sentimental trappings. But all the same, from time to time she found her hand drifting down to softly caress the gentle swell of her stomach. As she lay awake upon her straw mattress she would speak to it, tell it stories. Ofwolves and dogs, of stags and lions. Of Ned Stark and Arthur Dayne, of Robert Baratheon’s conquest of Westeros. Would it be a son, as big and strong as his father? Or maybe a girl, with curls of brown and eyes of sharpened steel…

Laying there in the cool, stone dark of the underground dorms, she had decided that she loved the pup; as she had once loved the dog. If the masters knew she was with child, she would be forced to terminate it. She decided that she would not let that happen.

And now, she kneeled before the Mother. Hoping blindly, foolishly, for guidance.

Foolish. That was the word.

She left the sept feeling no better nor worse than she had when she entered it, and that made her feel guilty. Sleep hardly ever came these days - so she walked the cobbled streets feeling sorry for herself, until the night faded and she came upon a canal, and there a bridge. The sun was just peaking over the horizon, framed beautifully by the crumbling row houses - and there, in the distance,the Titan looming ever watchful. Leaning over the rail and sighing, she breathed deeply.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a hunched shape slowly approaching her, balancing perilously on a gnarled walking stick. Each uneven step echoed upon the quiet streets, _ka thunk, ka thunk, ka thunk._

“Sweet girl,” the washerwoman cooed.

“Oh,” said Arya, turning and managing a small smile. “Hello.”

Then she was not a washerwoman at all, but a face so familiar and terrifying that she took a step back - but she was not quick enough, and the knife plunged once, twice, three times - she might have screamed, she did not know - and she tumbled head over heels over the railing and into the water below.

⤝ ⤞

_Breathe._

Arya emerged, gasping and spluttering, from the frigid depths of the canal. Air had never tasted so sweet as she shivered violently, struggling to tread water. Looking around frantically, she paddled clumsily to the water’s edge, flinging an arm onto the bottommost step of a moss-covered docking stair. Groaning in effort, she hauled herself up and over, falling to her knees, soaking wet and dripping upon the ancient stone. Clutching her stomach in pain, she reclined back and attempted to catch her breath. She regarded her trembling hand, shocking red, and the pool of blood steadily gathering beneath her. As panic rose high in her throat, her breathing became labored and unsteady.

Dark hair clung to her face in spidery tendrils as she limped her way through the busy Braavosi market streets, leaving a trail of crimson in her wake. The mongers parted before her as if she was diseased, eyeing her warily: her sopping clothes, the blood seeping from between the fingers she kept clasped to her midsection. Arya searched their faces desperately – for what, she could not say. Some semblance of pity, of empathy. A pair of familiar brown eyes that she knew she would not find.

The babe had just begun to show, only a bulbous swell though she was so far gone. She expected it was because of her stature, as short and scrawny as she was. The pup was the rose glow to her cheeks, the little flutter in her belly. The Waif could not have known, surely. And yet, the knife plunged into her stomach at just the right place. Once, twice, three times.

Luckily, Arya Stark of Winterfell was excellent at managing a crisis. She was calm, she was organized – in control of her life and of the situation. She believed in handling, alone, whatever life threw at her – as she had always done, since her days of chasing strays through the underbelly of King’s Landing. This was no different. She was rational, she was prepared. She would not fall apart.

Oh, yes, certainly.

Instead she found an alcove to hide in and sobbed into her hands, feeling so much older than her nineteen years.Her head was light and her eyes heavy – it was a Maester she needed, but there were no Maesters in Braavos. Only mummers. _Mummers…_

_⤝ ⤞_

“ _My son. My firstborn son. My child-king…_ ”

Arya was dying. Bleeding out, the last of her strength expended as she staggered through the shadows, careful to stay out of sight – and heaved herself through a window of what she knew for certain were the dressing rooms, from the days she spent casing the place. Her heart pounded in her ears, and the floor rippled before her eyes.

“ _Hush. Listen to the gods: for you, they sing. Fight no more, sweet child, your wars are won._ ”

Blood dripped steadily to the floor as she crept around the corner, quickly ducking behind a brightly painted façade to avoid the path of a scurrying servant girl.

“ _The wolves are buried, and the false stag done. Shut your blue eyes, my love, let the crown fall. The father above beckons you to his hall…_ ”

Outside, the muffled din of the mummery drifted like a distant dream. The commanding voice of Lady Crane above all, cutting through the respectful, bated silence as she recited the lines. Panting, Arya found refuge behind a heavy veil of multi-colored costumes, sliding slowly down the wall and exhaling in relief. Stay awake. You must stay awake…

“ _…with noose, or with knife. Though it may take me a fortnight, a moon, or my life._ ”

Deafening applause and roaring cheers went up, signaling the end of the act – and soon after, the tell-tale music that could only spell the entrance of The Imp.

Someone entered the antechamber with a sigh as Arya watched from a slit beneath the costumes, shrugging off a blonde wig, tossing it aside, and sitting heavily at the table in the corner. A bottle was uncorked with a faint ‘pop’, its contents emptied into a glass. Leaning forward for a better look at who it was, Arya accidentally disturbed an unfortunately placed prop, sending it tumbling sideways. Cursing and clutching her midsection, she shrunk away.

Whoever it was stood immediately, snatching up a candlestick. Arya steeled, feeling herself grow fainter by the second.

There was the sound of tentative steps upon the wooden planks, creaking, and slowly the heavy curtain of fabric was pulled aside.

“ _Child,_ ” Crane gasped, falling to her knees.

_⤝ ⤞_

The lantern overhead swung in and out of focus, a single light in the dark ebbing closed around her eyes. As Arya struggled to stay conscious, Lady Crane rushed about the room.

“Please,” Arya murmured and moaned, her voice hoarse. “The babe…”

A cool, damp cloth was pressed to her forehead. “Where is the father?” Crane posed the question calmly, as one might inquire about the weather; yet Arya could sense a trembling in her voice that only confirmed her fears.

“ _Dead,_ ” Area whispered. She could see plainly, now, the blood soaking the sheets between her legs. Her eyes slid closed, her heart sinking. The pup was coming, and there was no telling if it was already gone.

“You must stay awake,” Crane tapped her face lightly, enough to rouse her again. “Tell me about him.”

“They…they called him a dog,” she rasped. Sweat coated her paling grey face, making her tawny hair stick to her forehead as her chest rose and fell. “…but he was only a man. A warrior.” Pain swelled through her body in waves.

“What did he look like? Handsome?” she fumbled with a bundle beside her.

“ _Yes,_ ” Arya smiled through the tears swiftly gathering. “Big, and strong…and _kind,_ no matter what anyone said…I was his, and he was mine.”

Crane smoothed back her hair, creasing her brow. “Think of him, child,” she said, softly.

Her scream pierced the night like a knife to flesh.

“Shh,” Crane said, hushing her. “You must be calm - it’s almost over, _breathe…breathe._ ”

Arya sobbed, gripping the sheets tightly, and allowed the woman to do her work, her eyes clenched shut. _Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper…_

Milk of the poppy brought deep dreams of strong arms and brown eyes - and of Winterfell, her brothers, of King’s Landing sewers and dancing lessons. At the end of it all, a great dragon’s skull swallowed her hole.

_What do we say to the god of death?_

_Not today._

The snow was blinding, whipping and tearing at her face - at her  _fur._ She looked down and saw that her hands were not her hands, but her paws. As she walked forward, confused and disoriented, she saw something in the white. 

It was a dog. 

As big as a horse, a looming shadow in the white with desperate, yellow eyes full of rage and pain. 

As she watched, it turned and ran. 

She followed it, her heart beating wildly, but lost him in the storm. 

_⤝ ⤞_

The sounds of the city below drifted through the open window, stirring the sheer curtains and slowly rousing Arya awake. The pain clawed angrily at her insides, as the recollection of the previous night rushed over her like a wave.

“You’re awake. Good. Turn for me.” Crane immediately came to her side.

Arya smacked her dry, cracked lips. “…The babe?”

“Ah,” said Crane, stopping her work, and the smile she gave made relief wash over Arya. “Asleep. For a few hours now. I expect he’ll be hungry."

_He._

“Bring him to me,” she breathed, heart pounding.

She rose, wiping her hands on the rag that hung from the apron she wore, and crossed the hallway to the other room in the small apartment. When she reappeared, she held in her arms a tiny, squirming bundle - swaddled in multicolored fabrics.

“Here,” said Crane warmly.

Arya’s brow creased upwards, her heart pounding in her chest, as she took her pup gently into her arms.

He was beautiful.

A thick, inky blotch of dark hair stuck out in wet, tiny locks from the top of his head - his father’s hair. And when his eyes peeked open, still new and confused, they were the steel grey of Stark. His little fists were clenched to his chest, and as she watched he gave a great yawn, arching his back against her.

“Hello there,” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes. Gently, she pulled aside her tunic, bringing him to her breast. 

_⤝ ⤞_

The old woman redressed the wound, tying the bandage carefully around her midsection as Arya watched. 

"You're good at that," she murmured, looking up from her babe. "Where'd you learn?" 

A lopsided smile spread over her face.

“I’m a jealous woman,” she said at last. “I’ve always liked bad men. And they’ve always liked me.” She finished her task and stood, gathering up atray from the beside. “They’d come home – wherever home was that night, stinking of some whore’s perfume…” she crossed to the kitchenette, rummaging and producing a bowl for the pot over the fire. “…So we’d fight, and I’d put a hole in them. And I’d feel terrible. So I’d patch them up.”

Arya smiled weakly; it was a familiar tale, of a wolf and a hound.

“I got good at patching them up,”

“And good at putting holes in them?” Arya ventured.

Crane chuckled at that. “And good at putting holes in them, yes.”

“The company’s moving on to Pentos soon,” Crane announced after a weighty pause. “You should come with us.”

Arya shook her head, looking down at her son. “I can’t.”

“Why not? I’ve a feeling you’d be good at this sort of work. And besides…we need a new actress.”

“I don’t think I could remember all the lines,”

Crane leaned forward. “Come with us. What’s left for you here, child?”

Arya lowered her eyes. “You wouldn’t be safe. Not while she’s looking for me. For us." 

“Who?”

“…She doesn’t have name.”

If it startled her, she did not show it. “Where will you go?”

Arya looked up, eyes searching. “Essos is East. Westeros is West. But what’s west of Westeros?”

Crane smiled. “I don’t know.”

“Nobody does, it’s where all the maps stop.”

“The edge of the world, maybe,” Crane whispered, wonder gleaming in her eyes.

Arya mirrored her smile. “I’d like to see that.”

As she finished her meal, Crane stood and crossed to the bedside, pouring out a goblet of wine and uncorking a small glass vial. A pearly substance spilled from it, blooming white like clouds in the fragrant red liquid.

“What’s that?”

“Milk of the Poppy.”

Arya waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t want any – not tonight.”

“It’ll help you sleep.” The old woman turned, holding out the goblet. “And sleep is the only way you’ll heal.”

Against her better judgement, Arya took it.

_⤝ ⤞_

On the third day, early light streamed in from the open window above the bed, casting shadows over the stone chamber and filling the crisp, fresh spring air with the morning songs of the birds. She laid with her head beneath the white linens, the lull of sleep still clinging fast. A warm, gentle hand laid upon her neck, the thumb stroking her cheek slowly and tenderly. Her eyes fluttered open.

Beneath the covers, the gentle light of dawn made his dark hair glow in a sort of halo, and already she was drowning in the deep of his smiling, hooded eyes, his lopsided, handsome features. Their noses touched lightly, and his whiskers brushed against her upturned lips.

And then he was gone. Only a shade...

Vaguely, she registered the sound of careful steps upon the floor. A comfortable weight settled on the bed beside her, a gentle hand brushing hair from her forehed. _Hound._ Arya stirred and turned in her sleep, head swimming from the lingering effects of the potion the night before. _No._ The pain was but a dull ache in the back of her mind now, nowhere near the debilitating desperation of before.

The warm weight lifted from the bed, and quietly, the steps retreated.

Minutes later, a resounding crash startled her fully awake. She shot up, her heart pounding violently in her chest. Heavy steps sounded upon the hollow planked floor, accompanied by a swiftly crossing shadow.

“Lady Crane…?” she called tentatively, struggling to her feet. The Poppy still hung over her, her heavy limbs seeming to weigh her to the ground. Watching the door tentatively, she crossed to the makeshift cradle (a fruit crate, from the markets below) and gathered up her pup, holding him to her chest.

“ _Lady Crane?_ ” she called again, moving to the next room.

The actress laid there, blood pooling from her midsection, her head twisted into an unnatural position upon an overturned stool. Arya’s heart dropped, and she took a step backward, clutching her son.

“If you’d have done your job,” The cold voice startled her, tearing her gaze from the horror upon the floor. There, in the doorway, stood the Waif. “…she would have died painlessly.” The knife, Arya could see, was still clutched in her hand.

Arya took a step backwards, and the Waif followed suit.

“Instead,” the plain-faced girl raised a hand, shrugging towards the gruesome scene with an incline of her head. “This.”

Arya’s heart hammered against her chest, her hands tightening around the babe as instinct and adrenaline began to take over.

“The many-faced god was promised a name,” the Waif continued. “And he must always receive what is his. _You_ can’t change that. _I_ can’t change that. No one can. And now…”

Arya felt the stone of the balcony beneath her feet.

“…He’s been promised another name.” The girl smirked.

Tearing her gaze away, Arya whipped around and bolted, ignoring the pain, and vaulted over the railing - landing cat-like upon the street below, clutching her babe carefully, and limped away.

_⤝ ⤞_

She did not know how long she waited there for her master, crouched in the shadow of the Stranger. The only sound was the steady dripping of blood, flowing from the newest addition to the House’s exhibit.

The footsteps upon the stone floor were more hurried than usual. The man moved swiftly through the countless columns of the hall, seemingly searching for something - something that was not there. Finally, he stopped, pale blue eyes following the crimson trail of blood and coming to rest at last upon the face of the Waif.

Silently, like the tomcats she had spent her youth chasing, Arya slid from the plinth of her god and landed upon the stone floor. There was a squirming bundle cradled carefully upon her back, secured with fabric tied expertly around her chest to form a sling. 

“You told her to kill me,” she said quietly, Needle in hand. His back straightened, head raised.

“Yes.” The man turned slowly on his heels, to meet her eyes from beneath the shadow of his grey hood. “But here you are…and there she is.”

He stepped forward, so that the point of her sword dug into his chest.

A small smile played upon the lips. “Finally…a girl is No One.”

Arya found tears gathering in her eyes as she swallowed, glaring up other former master. The debt had been paid; a life given, for a life lost.

“A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell,” she said, palming the tears away. “And I am going home.”


	3. Sandor III

_Sandor_

 

_Six moons later._

It was dark in the pass. The looming stone flanks of the snowy mountains hid the sun for most of the day, so they walked in shadow, their breath steaming the crisp aspen air. Water from the Great Glacier above trickled down into small puddles, frozen as it fell like dead fingers reaching towards them, cracking breaking rhythmically beneath their boots. The pass was as narrow as it was steep, winding ever upwards, so they were forced into single file. The Stark boy took the lead, his _Longclaw_ close at hand; he was the sharpest of the company, with the keenest of eyes and the most ‘hands-on’ experience with the Others. The red-haired wildling - Torbjorn or something or other - trailed behind him, babbling idly away, followed by old Mormont, Beric, and Thoros, who clutched his blood red cloak tight and braced against the wind that whistled through the jagged rocks. Sandor kept up the rear with the other two wildlings that accompanied them. The green boy with the hammer struggled up the steep just before him, slipping on the uneven rock and sending pebbles flying. 

“ _Wotcher,_ ” Sandor hissed, catching the boy in his arms and bracing a foot behind him, grimacing as an unearthly twinge shot up his lame leg. One misstep upon the burnished rocks could spell a mile-long tumble down the mountain - yet another journey Sandor was not keen to make. 

Three days - three days since he’d agreed to go on this bloody fool’s errand. To what? Find one of these fabled Others, if they even fucking existed, and bring it back to show a council of fancy fops back in the one place in the Seven Kingdoms he never wished to set foot in again, all on the far-fetched whim of some vision he’d had in the flames, one even he did not understand. 

It was a shit deal. He knew this. 

So why in the seven hells did he agree to it? 

_Penance._

And so, as he set about most things in life, Sandor elected to buck up and do what needed to be done. There was nothing for him in the world, not anymore; only the pursuit of some hope, and what he himself could do to bring it. Whether he understood the path he had been set upon was inconsequential - what mattered was that he walked it, and walk it he would - to whatever end. 

As the pass curved and opened wider, the party disappeared before him until he rounded the corner, where he found them gathered and staring quite crossly out over a massive, howling tundra that looked no more inviting than the sharp, jagged rocks at the bottom of the pass behind them. He heaved a great sigh and hauled himself over, folding his arms against the wind as it tugged at his cloak. 

“The elements are against us,” Mormont was saying, raising his voice above above the wind. “And who’s to say what’s ice and what’s snowpack? We must wait, Jon! At least until we can see five feet in front our faces!” 

“No! We must press on!” Called the Stark boy. “We’ve no time to wait out the storm - no time at all!” 

“Then we best be bloody getting to it, eh?” Said Tormund, with that lopsided smirk. 

They moved carefully in a tightly knit formation, bracing themselves and each other against the blinding white abyss as snow crusted their beards and eyelids, nearly freezing them shut. Sandor, by far the tallest and largest of the company, forged their path with his shoulder to the wind. The white gusts whipped savagely at their clothing, the cold piercing right through to their bones. Still they pressed on, until the blinding white turned to a blinding blue, signaling that night had at last fallen. One of the wildlings broke off and scouted far forward within their sight, grasping his spear tightly as he squinted into the abyss. 

“Hold!” Cried Tormund suddenly, and group ambled to a stop to see what the matter was. “Look!” 

They followed his gloved finger to the misty horizon, where they could just make out a dark shape against the snow, moving idly to and fro. 

“A bear,” said Jorah, clutching his scabbard in alarm.

“Big fucker,” said Sandor, doing the same. 

As they watched, it drew ever closer, and then turned his huge head to regard them. There was something off about it, something not quite natural. Its gait, its stature, its…

“Do…do bears have blue eyes?” said Gendry, taking a step back. 

In the distance, the wildling turned suddenly and began sprinting towards them as the beast began its charge. The company drew their swords immediately, moving forward to meet him - but from the abyss he was cut off by a raging wall of fur and rotting flesh, disappearing with a muffled scream into the swirl of snowfall. 

They screeched to a clumsy halt, but Jon jogged forward, searching for their comrade in vain. There was no trace of the poor sod besides an umistakeable, ominous smear of blood, shockingly dark against the snow. Chests heaving, they stood back to back in a circle, returning to their formation and squinting uneasily into the snow - until it charged from nowhere, galloping -

“ _There!_ ” Jorah shouted, and raised his sword in a flashing arc, bringing it down upon the creature. It skidded to the ground with an earth-shaking _thud_ but rose immediately, Jorah’s blade sprouting from its neck like some absurd weed - Sandor took a mad swing at it but missed, knocked to his knees as it passed - Beric and Thoros were in its path, and with an ethereal ring of metal, their swords ignited, flames dancing in the swirling blue-white of the blizzard. They swung, missed, swung again - it snapped, missed, Beric’s sword connected - the mad creature was ablaze now, but it was only angry, confused, shaking its head to put out the flames - the world seemed to slow as it turned its eyes to Sandor, cold and dead, and made its final charge - he was in the way, he needed to move, he was going to die, _but the flames,_ his feet would not move, he was going to _die -_

There was a grunt and he was shoved from the creature’s path, dazed - Thoros was there, beneath the bear, and a blur of fur and flames danced before Sandor’s wide eyes, Thoros’s terrifying cries piercing the howl of the blizzard. _Get up,_ he urged himself. _Get up. He’s dying and it’s your fault, GET UP -_

With a war cry to put a wildling to shame, Jon and Gendry leapt upon the creature, hacking and slashing - Jorah leapt from the side, plunging his daggers into its great rotting head - he pulled back as if on reigns and the creature reared - and with a great roar, it collapsed upon the ground with a _thud,_ defeated. 

Sandor, shell-shocked, scrambled to his feet to meet his comrades, who were hurrying to attend to Thoros where he lay. 

Jorah stabbed his bloodied sword into the snow, still breathless, his green cloak billowing in the wind. “We must get him back to Eastwatch.” 

The Red Priest shook his head, convulsing slightly. Blood bloomed slowly over his chest, darkening his crimson shawl in places. “ _F…Flask,_ ” he managed. Beric obliged, uncorking it with his mouth and bringing the wineskin to his lips. Thoros took a generous pull, gulping the liquid down as if it were the nectar of the gods, yanking it back derisively when Beric thought to take it away. When he was at last finished, they regarded one another, priest and lord, each knowing what must come next. 

“ _Go on,”_ Thoros whispered, chest rising and falling. Beric clutched his hand tightly, and then raised his flaming sword. 

The smell was carried away by the wind; but the sound…Gods, _the sound._ The sinister searing and crackling of flesh gave way to the Red Priest’s strangled cry of pain, cut short as he bit his tongue. Sandor could not bear to look. He turned away, folding his arms and hanging his head until it was over, singular guilt overtaking him. _It should have been me._

Beric tore strips from his cloak and Jorah from his own, and together they knelt and bound the wounds as best they could, winding the fabric around the priest’s chest and shoulder as he grimaced in pain, too weak to hold himself up. When they finished their task, they propped him upon their knees and replaced his silver breast late, which now boasted four new dents where the bear had ravaged him. By some divine grace or perhaps only coincidence the armor had taken the brunt of the damage. Sandor was certain he would have perished, if not for the plate. 

“You alright?” The old lord knelt close beside him.

Thoros grit his teeth, inhaling sharply. “I just got bit by a _dead bear,_ ” 

“Aye,” Beric smiled sadly, but mirth twinkled in his eye. “You did.” He laid a hand on Thoros’s face, cupping it, and then leaned to press their foreheads together. 

“Funny only life,” Thoros whispered weakly, a weathered hand threading through the one-eyed lord’s tawny hair. 

They allowed themselves a moment to catch their breath and gather their wits, each man eyeing the horizon warily, expecting another flaming horror to come careening from the swirling darkness. Tormund mumbled something about marking the site, so that the wildling who had perished - Ram, he was called - could have a proper burial. All the while, Jon was restless. 

“We must move on,” he said. 

“Aye, we must.” said Jorah. “But where? We can’t keep walking until we drop, lad.” 

“No…” he mumbled, lost in thought. “We cannot.” 

Tormund stomped forward, looking around at them all. “Then there’s the matter of the cripple.” 

“Which one?” said Jorah. 

“Those wounds weren’t as deep as they could have been. But he needs rest. At least until dawn. ” He raised a gloved hand, pointing to the jagged rocks ahead. “We should make for that pass. Set up camp. The ravine’ll keep the wind at bay, and our backs protected.” 

“Aye, and how’re we to get him there?” said Sandor. 

There was silence for a time, and slowly all eyes turned to him. He shifted uncomfortably, shying in their gaze. 

Beric raised his brow. “Thank you for graciously volunteering, Clegane.” 

_Oh fuck._

“ _Piss on that,_ Dondarrion.” Sandor growled, folding his arms derisively. “The fuck I look like, a pack pony for your bloody wife to ride about on? I suppose you’ll want me to wash his feet next, maybe fetch him some ice milk - ”

“Clegane, please,” 

“He’d like to ride _you,_ I’m sure.” Sandor mumbled, yet even as he complained he knelt dutifully at Thoros’s side. “But no, it’s me who’s got to do it. What fucking else am I good for anyway,” He stood, grunting, and slung the old priest over his broad shoulder. “Not like I can fight or anything.” 

_I am in his debt._

* * *

 

Though the red god had mercy upon Thoros, the mountain gods gave them no such concession. Up and up they trekked, through the blinding blue swirl of snow, trudging slowly and deliberately on their way. The wind howled with such ferocity that Sandor’s hood was ripped from his head, and Thoros shivered violently against his back.

“Here lies – unh – Sandor Clegane,” he grunted. “Why did he not depart this mortal coil through honor, or by way of the gods? Or, felled by the – hrrrk – blade of an enemy, or the strike of an arrow, you ask?” He shifted Thoros on his shoulder, the snowpack uneven beneath his feet. “Because the bloody fool succumbed to his own cracking, aching back while carrying a drunk priest up a mountain.”

“…good dog.” Thoros murmured, barely conscious, and a small smile graced his lips.

“ _Jon!_ ” called Jorah, lifting his voice. “ _We must turn back! The cold will be the death of Thoros!”_

 _“No! We’re nearly there!” c_ ried Tormund, and he motioned with his axe.

Sandor hefted Thoros, adjusting him so that his cheek rested against his back. Beric looked on in concern, though he tried valiantly to hide it.

At last they came to the top, and there an overhang of rock that shielded them from the elements. With their burdens discarded, they began to make camp, unrolling what was left of their beds and making a small fire behind a boulder, where the light could not be seen by any unwanted eyes, whether living or undead.

When all had more or less settled in, they set about deciding who would take the first watch. All were weary, but it wasn’t much choice - Sandor offered, not without a grumble; yet it was a half-hearted protest, as truly he no longer slept very often, nowadays. And of course, it would not be easy to chase sleep in the bitter snowy cold, with the threat of some new undead fuckery hanging over his head.

And so he watched, and waited, and watched some more; there wasn’t much to see, and he kept his ears trained to the west, where he was sure he would hear any sign of movement first. The night dragged on, and it wasn’t even yet past midnight when the blizzard quieted, the clouds clearing, revealing the tapestry of stars above and the lonely moon hanging low on the horizon. He found himself climbing further up and sitting atop the boulder, his hands on his knees, just looking up into the abyss. Softly he began to hum, for no particular reason, and then gently sang.

Some prissy bard from some shithole tavern in King’s Landing had made the damn thing up. He didn’t know why he still remembered it, or why it affected him so. He was half-drunk when he heard it first, perhaps too young to be so, but there it was.

 

_Beware, beware_

_The Daughter of the North_

_Beware I heard them cry…_

_Their words carried upon the winter breeze_

_As the light did leave their eyes._

 

_Those blood-soaked shores_

_Upon the Crownlands moors,_

_Where good men fought and died._

_The Old Wolf fell at the Red Doors_

_Because she left his side._

 

_When she did flee_

_To the ocean deep_

_The Young Wolf followed south_

_What else but sail_

_To save a sister’s life?_

_And pray she still drew breath._

 

_But there he found_

_Upon those Dornish shores_

_The White Swords ‘pon the rise_

_But when he faced those noble foes,_

_His sister stood aside._

 

_I heard, I heard,_

_Across the moonlit trees,_

_The old gods warning me._

_Beware, beware,_

_The Daughter of the North._

_Beware,_

_Beware…_

 

He hung upon the last word, grinding his jaw, and then lowering his head.

“Who is she?”

For some reason, the voice did not startle him.

“Hm?”

“This woman you sing of.” The Stark boy. Or Snow. Whichever. His boots were quiet on the snowpack, almost silent. His training as a Ranger, perhaps.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “It’s just a song.”

The young man settled beside him, his dark eyes searching the sky above. “You sound as if you knew her.”

“Aye…” Sandor trailed off, and then raised his head to the night. “She was your kin. Lyanna Stark. The…the She-Wolf.” The moniker caught in his throat.

“I never knew her,” said Jon. “She died, not long before I was born.”

“She was a beauty,” said Sandor, far-off. “As much as the songs say, and more.”

“Then you do know her!”

“Only from afar. I was only a boy when I saw her. Clothed in white and furs…alabaster skin…Morning’s Glory in her hair, as dark as all the trees in the Wolfswood.”

“I wish I could have known her,” Jon looked at him, smiling gently, and then spoke. “They say my sister is Lyanna come again. Arya.” Sandor’s fist tightened, but he made no motion of recognition. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen her. I wonder, always, where she could be. If she’s alright. If she’s…if she’s safe.”

 _Aye._ He thought, lowering his head. _As do I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Folk song' is a reworded version of 'The Daughter of the Sea' aka Warbringers: Jaina from the soundtrack of WoW Battle for Azeroth.


	4. Arya II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six moons after the company's harrowing expedition beyond the Wall. Winter has, at last, fallen; and with it, new and present danger.

_Arya_

Upon crossing the Narrow Sea, the dreams returned with the certain urgency and fervor they had not possessed since her mother and brother were murdered at the Twins; and as the changing of the tides, Arya soon found that in the nights, she was a wolf again. No longer a blinded, beaten, destitute cat prowling the piss alleys of some far off kingdom, scrounging for scraps wherever she could find. But a wolf. A Queen. And truly - _truly -_ alive. Prowling the forests and quiet dales of her dreams, it was not long before she found herself amongst a flock of sheep.

The menfolk had killed her brothers not six moons past. This she could sense, could feel deep in her heart. The black one, with the sad eyes full of rage and the howl of something never tamed but wholly _wild._ Dead. Dead, and gone. And the ancient one, with three eyes full of quiet, dour knowing…she could no longer feel him as she once could. Now there were two, and no more. Their anger simmered, grew low in their bellies. Bloodlust, rage.

Lament.

The she-wolf kept her calm. She always kept her calm. She was strong. Swift as the river, quiet as the shadows. Queen of the white, Lord of the Crossing. They were sloppy. Careless. They really should have known better by now.

Leave one wolf alive, and the flock is never safe.

She whispered it in his ear and let her claw slip through his throat.

 _Valar morghulis._ All men must die, but I am no man.

In the dingy, smoke ridden hall of his children and grandchildren, the chorus of death fell upon her ears - sweeter than any minstrel’s harp. She closed her eyes and reveled in it.

And in less time than it had taken for it to rise, House Frey had fallen.

* * *

 

Arya inhaled sharply, her eyes fluttering open and adjusting slowly to the low blue light of the small hours that was just beginning to peek timidly through the evergreen boughs above. Her little campfire crackled quietly beside her, only embers burning low in the pit she had dug; and her mare snorted derisively from where she had her hobbled safely nearby, hidden amongst the barren brush. Exhaling, Arya began to sit up, ever mindful of the warm bundle of fabric she had upon her chest, secured around her back in a clever, twisting knot. The Hound’s cloak, and cradled safely inside, their pup. It would not do to wake him so early, so she sat in attentive silence and watched the world awake around her. The Boy was quiet, still fast asleep, breathing rhythmically through a tiny, slack-jawed little mouth. He shifted, stretched a little, turned his head so his ear was against her heart as she looked down at him and smiled, though sadness still tugged at the corners of her tired eyes.

“I must think of a name for you, one of these days.”

He’d grown big and healthy since his decidedly shaky start: his round eyes, once the pure newborn blue, had gone a familiar shade of deep, captivating summer brown that she more than often found herself becoming lost in. Fascination, maybe - adoration. He would raise his head determinedly from his swaddling, his gaze roaming as he took in the trees, the chirping birds, the glittering waters with an ardent, endearing curiosity - and watching him she suddenly understood how her mother felt, the deep ache of loving something so completely and utterly that you would gladly give your life for it if only it would be well and happy. The blotch of inky dark hair atop his head was as unruly as her own, never failing to stick nearly straight up in a magnificent cowlick to rival any no matter how many times she washed and smoothed it. His chubby fists reached and touched and grasped with abandon: a lock of her hair, her cloak, her cheek. He was a smart boy, a quiet boy, a beautiful boy. Above all, she thanked whatever God was listening that he was _strong._

Yet however much she had grown to love the Boy, she could not help but wonder what sort of life it was that she was giving him. What sort of life she _could_ give him. For the first time in years, there was no clear destination in sight, no objective, no aim besides killing Cersei; before her eyes the future was clouded, uncertain, and the past was no different. She simply existed, she and her pup, and took each day in stride, neither getting nearer to nor farther from her intentions. Once so decisive, she found herself irresolute and doubtful of every thought. Perhaps it was fear…or perhaps it was the life she now held in her hands, so precious and pure, and all at once a burden she both loved and resented. 

She did not resent the boy, no, of course not. She resented herself and choices she had made, the paths she walked, for whether she wished it or not she no longer walked them alone. What she resented were her own shortcomings - _How can I be a proper mother, when I have no mother to show me? -_ her own misgivings, her hesitations. She was only a child when she was forced to suddenly grow up or die, all I one fell swoop of the executioner’s blade. She did not wish that for her son, yet she feared it was inevitable.

“Here now,” she murmured, stroking his cheek with her finger. “You must be hungry. You haven’t eaten since yesterday, little one.”

He took to her eagerly, and when he had his fill, she set about collapsing their little camp; in less than an hour they were on their way yet again, following the river north and west. The new winter chill just barely pierced through her bundled limbs, and as the evergreens rustled in the breeze she pulled her hood over her face, grateful for any protection against the biting wind. She was not sure how long she had been riding, but the rhythmic _clop clop clop_ of her mare’s hooves against the ruined stone path was soon interwoven with the sound of high, clear singing.

_He rode through the streets of the city_

_Down from his hill on high._

_O’er the winds and the steppes and the cobbles,_

_He rode to to a woman’s side._

_For she was his secret treasure,_

_She was his shame and his bliss._

_And a chain and a keep are nothing_

_Compared to a woman’s kiss…_

It was a serene, calming voice not unlike the minstrels of King’s Landing; but the smell of cooking meat and burning wood that accompanied it meant that there was a camp nearby, and camps meant bandits or worse: soldiers. Moons on the road had taught her better, and she quickly slowed her mare to a trot, guiding her off of the rocky trail and carefully picking their way through the brush, where the maze of bare branches and evergreens - though not painless to navigate - would give them some semblance of shelter from unwelcome eyes.

When she could on longer smell (nor hear) anything else suspicious, she carefully mounted the trail again with a gentle ‘yah’. As the sky grew pink with twilight yet again, the trees parted to reveal exactly what she was riding for: the Inn at the Crossroads.

It looked the very same as it did those years ago as she rode with the King and her father’s retinue, despite the the denser growth of ivy that winded up the front n the shade of the ancient trees that grew nearby. Pleasant, enticing smells drifted with the chimney smoke above, which told her the great hearth was ablaze, welcoming and warm. In the distance, the Trident roared proudly, glittering in the low evening light, and she smiled to herself ruefully as she remembered chucking Joffrey’s little Lion’s Tooth into the rushing green. Looking up at the old stone building as she dismounted, a shiver went through her spine.

Gods, but she was hungry. And it’d been moons since she’d had a proper sleep, without one eye open and a hand on her dirk. She decided she could delay just a wee bit longer. What was a single night compared to years?

* * *

 

The clientele seemed to be less royal and more common these days; though she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, for she came here now as No One rather than a guest of a brotherhood, or part of a retinue. The dining room was as warm and she had hoped, bustling and crowded as ale sloshed and bread baked. There were more tavern maids than she remembered, but as pressed for funds as she was, she avoided them and made for a table in the shadowy corner where she could watch and listen.

“‘Arry!”

For whatever reason, Arya felt no reason to hide nor any trepidation; instead, she turned in her chair, getting the glittering, happy brown eyes gazing down at her in disbelief with a genuine smile.

“Hullo, Hot Pie.”

He’d grown in more ways than one, since those years ago, though she supposed she wasn’t surprised by this as well. Time had wore on for the both of them. As she was now a woman, he was now a man - still quite heavyset though not as rotund, with a shaggy mane of shoulder-length hair and the beginnings of wispy ginger beard. His beady, albeit kindly eyes were set deep in their sockets, and the bags under his eyes told her he was working as tirelessly as ever. In his thick hands he clasped a great wooden tray, which was laden with all manner of rather enticing dishes, platters and pints.

He sat down in earnest, opening his mouth to speak - but she interrupted him, unable to contain herself.

  
“Who’s that for, then?”

“Oh, it - hmmm…”

He raised a pudgy hand and then lowered it, watching as she tore into a loaf of bread with abandon. The boy chirped and tugged at her hair as she ate, but she scarcely noticed, just glad to be eating. The bread was the perfect texture, both porous and fluffy, buttered and baked to magnificence. It almost melted on the tongue, and she hummed in appreciation. “Mmmph. This is good.” Changing focus, she stabbed her fork into the pie, eagerly shoveling it into her mouth.

The stupid, lopsided grin she was so accustomed to spread across Hot Pie’s face. “You think so?” And when she nodded, he looked around and then leaned in close, lowering his voice. “The secret…is browning the butter before making the dough.” He sat back in his chair then, looking quite pleased with himself as he watched her eat. “Most people don’t do that. Takes up too much time, I suppose. And we’re all pressed for time, these days.”

“I certainly didn’t do that,” said Arya thoughtfully.

Hot Pie quirked a brow. “You’ve been…making pies?”

“One or two.” She shrugged.

They sat in silence for a while, or rather Hot Pie did - the sounds she was making were rather unearthly, as she wolfed down every single morsel in her reach, frankly not giving a shit if it was uncouth or not. She felt his eyes wander to the squirming, babbling bundle on her chest, the chubby little fist poking out from the folds - but he said nothing about the boy, instead smiling once more in earnest.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” He could hardly contain the laughter in his voice. “Did you meet the bid lady?”

Arya swallowed, looking at him as if he had two heads. “‘Big lady’?”

“Aye. The lady knight?”

A pang went through her body, right to her heart, but she conceded to hide her repulsion. 

“I mean…I think she was a knight,” Hot Pie continued, scratching his head as Arya continued to eat in bated silence. “Had armor on and everything, you know…she was looking for your sister, but I told her about you. She ever uh…find you, then?”

Arya nodded stiffly, staring into the fireplace. “She found me.”

Hot Pie creased his brow, and moved his chair forward, leaning towards her. “What…what _happened_ to you, Arry?”

 _Seven fucking hells, what didn’t,_ she wanted to say. Instead she gazed at him, and adjusted the Boy’s swaddling. “You got any ale?”

Without breaking her gaze, he reached his hand and passed the flagon over. She grabbed it eagerly and poured herself a generous pint before downing it all in a single go, wiping her mouth and burping loudly as Hot Pie watched, both dumbfounded and impressed. Then, without speaking, she snatched another loaf and dug in.

“Where you headed?”

“King’s Landing.”

“Why?”

“Cersei’s queen now.”

“Heard she blew up the Great Sept…bloody shame, though it must have been summat to see.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling as if imagining the sight. “ _Boom._ ”

“Mm.”

“Can’t believe someone’s do that.”

“Cersei would most certainly do that.”

Hot Pie gazed at her thoughtfully. “I thought you’d be heading for Winterfell.”

Arya creased her brow. “Why would I go there? The Boltons have it.”

“Nah,” he said, smiling. “The Boltons are dead. Have been for moons.”

Arya swallowed, her heart dropping. She dropped the bread on the plate with small clatter, leaning in closer, not sure she had heard correctly. “Wh…what?” 

Hot Pie nodded eagerly, his smile broadening. “Jon Snow came down from Castle Black with an army of wildlings and won the Battle of the Bastards. He’s King in the North now, last I heard.”

Arya shook her head slowly, hope suddenly blooming deep in her chest. “You’re lying. You must be,”

Hot Pie quirked a brow. “Why would I lie about that?  He’s your brother, right?” 

Her face became hot as tears stung at her eyes, but she quickly palmed them away, setting her brow in stone. This was something she had to see for herself, and there was no sense in getting her hopes up…her brothers and sisters were dead, weren’t they? And yet…

“Have you got room? I mean - ” she exhaled. “Is there are room available for the night?”

Hot Pie smiled, standing to gather her dishes. “There’s always a room here. Talk to Margo at the bar -she’ll get you sorted.”

* * *

Arya had hoped a feather bed would allow her to rest more easily; but the news of Jon’s conquest had left her mind (and heart) racing with hope she hadn’t felt since she set eyes upon the Twins those years ago, before…. well, before everything went to shit. She had long given up on finding her family again; they had always seemed to be right outside of her reach, taunting shapes in the fog. Restless, she tossed and turned, chasing sleep to no avail. As the blue morning light began to creep from beneath the curtains, she at last yielded with heavy, frustrated sigh and rose, thankful that the Boy had slept soundly through the night. Picking him up, she kissed his forehead.

“We’ve many miles to cover today,” She murmured, turning to the window and bouncing him on her hip as he gurgled happily. “We’ll be home soon. Would you like that?” 

He said nothing, of course. She smile down at him, cocking her head in thought - and suddenly, she just knew.

“ _Hoster._ ”

When she made her way downstairs dressed and laden for the journey ahead, Hot Pie was waiting. He smiled widely as she met him, his eyes crinkling. “So you’re off then?”

“Yeah, I’m off.” She sniffed. “Uh…thanks. For the pie.” Gathering herself, she went to grab her coin purse, but he held a hand out, waving her away.

“Friends don’t pay.” He smiled, searching her face. “Can’t believe I thought you were a boy. You’re-you’re pretty, you know!”

A small smile crossed her lips. “Thanks.” As she passed, she hesitated, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “Take care off yourself, Hot Pie. Try not to get killed.”

“Ah, I won’t,” he scoffed. “I’m like you, Arry. A _survivor._ ”

And she sincerely hoped it was true. 

* * *

There was quite a commotion coming from the Inn’s stable; so much so it drew Arya’s attention away from her mare, who was tied safely to the hitching post outside. The Inn also served as a boarding barn and tack merchant, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to have horses of their own for sale. Her father had once bought five so that Jory and his men could have fresh steeds for the long road. As she strained to listen out of nothing but curiosity, there was a resounding crash, a derisive _whinny,_ and a string of expletives to make a Dornish sailor blush. Desperate snorting and trumpeting followed soon after. Arya dropped her mare’s reigns and made to investigate, pressing little Hoster closer to her. What sort of creature could have caused such a fuss?

Her question was soon answered as inside, the groom was struggling with a monstrous black destrier that looked to be over seventeen hands tall. As she watched the great stallion reared and trumpeted again, throwing his head in anger and pawing the floor. A sense of queer familiarity drove Arya’s feet slowly forward.  
  
“Right then ye great beast - come now, be a good lad!” The groom was a squat old man, much too frail to be handling such an animal. Throwing his hands in ire, he slammed the stall door shut again and produced a dirty handkerchief, wiping his brow.

Arya drew closer still.

“Can I be of any help, ser?”

The groom scoffed, dabbing at the back of his sweaty neck. “Not with this one, little lady. Wouldn’t budge for the queen ‘erself.”

Her heart dropped, and she stepped forward, her eyes locked upon the great black warhorse. Surely not. “What’s his name?”

The groom looked annoyed, fumbling with a spare bit of rope as he geared up for another attempt. “Driftwood. Found ‘im wandering the Riverlands, down by the rush. No rider in sight. Beautiful stallion…shame about his temperament. A steed fit for the finest knight, this one.”

Arya could not believe her eyes. Surely - surely this could not be him. Surely…and yet. It was.

The white splotch upon his chest. The wavy black mane that hung in a curtain over his eyes. And…yes. By the gods, there it was. The scar from a wayward arrow upon his snout. It had only grazed him, but the Hound had ridden the bandit down and cut him near in half over it…

There was no mistake. She reached towards the stallion in a daze.

The groom promptly pushed her hand away. “Not if you want to keep those fingers, Miss, I wouldn’t risk it.”

Shaking her head as if to clear it, she retracted, then turned to gaze intently at the groom. “Is he for sale?”

The old man scratched his scruff thoughtfully, shifting from one foot to another. “I don’t suppose anyone north of King’s Landing’ll take this one off my hands, not with that bloody temper. I tell you…if you can break him, he’s yours. I’m about done playing his games and I’ve got ten other horses to care for.” 

Arya smirked. “Deal.”

The groom gave her four gold pieces for the mare; more than enough, considering where she was going. It was not long before she returned to the stable, slinging her saddle and tack over her shoulder. As quiet as anything, she crept up to the stall and climbed over, landing cat-footed upon the straw floor below. The stallion stirred, snorting suspiciously - she cooed to himlowly, as she always did, and fished in her pocket. She remembered his favorite, thanking the stars she still had some from over a week ago: dried blackberries. Hand outstretched, she moved closer, offering him some. He reared restlessly, snorting in fear.

“It’s me, boy - it’s me - you know me. It’s Arya…it’s Arya…” He allowed her outstretched hand to gently touch his snout, and then stroke it. He immediately calmed, and knickered softly. “That’s right…that’s right, boy…” It was safe. Of course he remembered, of course. “They don’t know you, do they boy…? A gentle hand. He always had a gentle hand for you. And you served him well.” He allowed her to feed him, and he bobbed his head as he always did for her, happy at last. “Aye…you know me.” She whispered, pressing her forehead to his snout and closing her eyes. “… _Stranger._ ”


	5. Sandor III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight moons later, following the Council of the Dragon Pit, the Lannisters - backed by both the mercenary army of the Golden Company and the Iron Fleet of Euron Greyjoy, have declared their ill intentions and rescinded the treaty so carefully orchestrated by Tyrion Lannister, Davos Seaworth, and Varys the Spider. A blockade has formed in the Crownlands near the crossroads, where half of Daenerys Targaryen’s Unsullied forces beat back the red tide of the Lannister army - while the Night King marches steadily south, inching closer and closer to the Northern front held by Beric Dondarrion and the Night’s Watch. Sandor Clegane, having enough of Lannister cunts and visions in the flames, has chosen to ride back north with a supply convoy in order to join the fight against the Whitewalkers as Winterfell’s newly appointed Master-at-Arms.

_Sandor_

That the winter snows had spread so far in so short of a while did not surprise him; after all, it had been many moons since the white ravens flew from the citadel, heralding the end of the Long Summer. But the fact that his father's keep still stood tall upon the limestone cliff was most certainly an unforeseen circumstance. 

_Forsake the keep if you so desire. But I press you to accept this title._

Standing, of course, being about all it was good for these days. The hearths were not lit, the stables were dark, and the golden banners did not sway from the walls and battlements as they once did. The stone was crumbling in places, the roof nearly collapsed - a fitting analogy for House Clean, truly. He  _would_ be the lord of a pile of rubble, it complemented all the rest of his miserable existence. Yet through the rains and snows and winds it had endured, broken and bruised but still living. Much like himself. 

_The Queen is right, Clegane._

Wayward, dreary sunlight streamed in from a hole in the roof, falling upon the dusty remains of his father's chair, still positioned at the highest point of the dais in the Great Hall as it had been since the days of his grandfather. The upholstery was faded, moth-eaten - yet he raised his hands and drew his fingers over it. The crumbling wall gave him a view of the supply retinue gathered down in the dale below the cliff, red and grey flags streaming idly in the wind. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, laying a hand against the ice cold stone. 

_Strength is what we require to win this impossible war. And it is strength you possess. I believe you can inspire it, instill it in your men if you are given the chance._

His forehead soon followed suit, and in his ears he could have sworn he heard the ghosts of days long past, felt the push and pull of the years upon his shoulders. 

_Redeem yourself, make the amends your father and brother could not make. House Clegane was built upon a simple act of bravery and loyalty...sentiments that are in very short supply these days._

The pack survives. A simple notion, but one he had begun to take to heart for the first time in his life. Ironic, now, that the length of his sorry life seemed so much in question, what with Lannisters to the south and an army of undead horrors to the north, just barely held at bay. He supposed nothing made an idea so sweet to think of than the prospect of imminent, painful death. Then again, Death was an old friend of his. It had followed him everywhere he had tread, keeping to the shadows.

In the end Sandor had decided he quite liked living, no matter how fucked up it was, and would do anything to continue to do so. There were still some middle fingers he needed to throw, some cunts he’d like to stab. Sins to atone for. It would not do at all to die, when he come so far in so little of time.

_I humbly accept this honor, Your Grace._

After all, why not? Lord Clegane. Had a nice ring to it. He’d never wanted to be a knight, but he’d never minded the thought of being a lord. Lords just sat on their arses and did as they pleased. Maybe if they all survived the apoca-shitstorm that was currently breaking through the northern blockade, he’d find himself some woman and make her his wife, have a brat or two to carry on the line. And yet, deep down, he knew he would never do such a thing. There’d never be a woman to compare, measure up. His heart belonged to another, one whom he was certain he would never lay eyes upon again. It’d be whores from here on out, he supposed, and the sorry line would die with him. A fitting end to a sad, sad story.

For now, however, he would fight. 

* * *

 

They were to rendezvous with the rest of the army at daybreak; then it was one tiring week’s march to the black gates of Winterfell. The slow, rambling pace of the convoy was enough to lull him to the brink of sleep. When they reached the meeting hill, he was surprised with an unexpected visit.

Jon Snow looked appropriately exhausted, and the shoulders beneath the furs sagged with an unseen weight; though Sandor couldn’t exactly say his presence was unwelcome, he was unsure of any business he could have with him, and was equally taken aback when the young man extended the ornate handle of a bundled sword, meaning for him to grasp it. Sandor eyed it questioningly.

“A blade?” He said, his hand closing around it in hesitation.

“Not just any blade,” said Jon, managing a smile. “Valyrian steel. You told me you always wanted some. I hope you don’t mind, but we’re all carrying it nowadays, so I had it forged for you.”

_No, boy. I most certainly don’t mind._ Sandor slid it smoothly from the black leather scabbard, inlaid with steel, and closed his good eye to inspect it. It gleamed even in the low, misty morning light, its tempered folds twisting and dancing across the blade. The hilt and guard were ornate, etched in what looked to be pure silver - two snarling dogs, their tails curling around the shaft, set amidst a field of carven flowers. He couldn’t help but admire it, and with a flourish let it fall and twist into a graceful figure eight. It cut through the air with little resistance, and was well balanced. It fit his uncommonly large hand better than a glove. Holding it aloft, he nodded his head in approval, roving his eyes to meet Jon’s. “This is a good sword.”

“ _Canis._ ” Said the boy.

Sandor sheathed the blade, creasing his brow. “Hm?”

“That’s it’s name. _Canis._ ”

Sandor scoffed. “Only cunts name their swords.”

“All the best swords have names.”

As he walked away, the corners of Sandor’s mouth twitched into something akin to a smile.

* * *

 

_Seven hells._ The last time he marched up this road he was clad in that gods-awful helmet the Lannister brat forced him to wear, cantering alongside Cersei's gold-gilded carriage. He was also very hungover, as he often was those years. The clanking of the dog's head helmet had done nothing for his headache, nor his mood.   


This time, however, he was returning on different terms - a traitor to the dynasty he had once served, loyally and without question; his own man, and Lord of his own House, with seven men-at-arms so willing to swear allegiance to he and his household after serving beneath him in the sorties led against the Golden Company on the southern front. His own man - that much had changed, at least, but not the wary, suspicious looks from the villagers -  _(You lot have seen fucking flying furnaces but a man with one eyebrow still tickles your fancy?)_ \- or the muddy, drab decorum of Wintertown itself. The portcullis of Winterfell loomed in the distance, growing closer with each gallop. The landscape was different here, as well - trenches and traps, barrels of pitch, miles upon miles of stakes topped with dragon glass shards: it looked as if they were expecting the onslaught of a siege at any moment. He supposed that wasn't so outlandish a notion; he'd be out here in the thick of it when the time came, as he was now the Master-at-Arms and one of the three Captains of the Guard, the others being the big blonde bitch who'd kicked him off a cliff and Ed Tollet, whom he'd drank with on numerous occasions over the moons serving the Dragon Queen, a black brother of the Night's Watch without a wall to watch any longer. 

Master Clegane. Captain Clegane. Lord Clegane. It sounded foreign in his ears.  He was to hold these positions until the council found a proper replacement, or the war ended. Whichever came first, if ever. Cheerful thought. 

Slowly he overtook the rest of the convoy wagons, waving his men away and urging his destrier to a gallop, and swiftly approached the gates. There came a shouting from amongst the guards, and the great wooden doors sprung forth to greet him with a loud, creaking groan. He wheeled his horse around in the muddy yard, reigning him in as he stamped nervously, breathing the crisp air of the bustling yard and surveying his surroundings. There was no one without some task or manner of work, it seemed - and preparations were clearly being made for the worst, though the atmosphere was not exactly hopeless, at least not yet. A stable boy scrambled up to meet him, holding his hands out for the reigns, but Sandor waved him away as he dismounted with care, wincing as his bad leg smarted beneath him. 

“I can manage, boy. Get on with your chores.”

“I was told to assist you, milord,” said the boy sheepishly. “The groom told me not to leave you on your own.”

Sandor glanced down at him as he loosened his saddle, raising his good brow. The boy was a small thing, with the look of a frightened little field mouse, peering back at him through quivering grey eyes. Though Sandor couldn’t help but wonder if it was he the boy was afraid of, or the groom.

“Right,” Sandor grunted at last, removing his saddle. “You can carry my tack.”

“Very good, milord.”

“Enough with the _milords,_ ”

It was at that moment that Sandor raised his eyes to the battlements, and all else ceased to exist. 

Or did everything slow, deafen? He did not know. He did not care. His mouth may have gone slack, his heart may have stopped. The bloody blue Night King himself may have stabbed him in the gut and it would not have done the sensation justice. There was only her. Standing there. Here. She and her grey eyes full of something he could not name, staring down at him, cold and unerring. 

_ Arya.  _

It was as if not a day had passed since their parting. She was dressed in leathers and furs, ready for a fight, as always. Her dark hair fell onto her shoulder in that messy plait, errant strands surrounding her face in a tawny halo. Her brow was creased, framing her shining, stormy eyes in beautiful darkness. Her lips parted, and he thought for a moment he saw her say his name. His fist tightened and his chest followed suit. 

Then his eyes flickered away and down to the mud, and with all the might he could muster he tore himself away. 

_ She is here.  _

He had thought - well, he wasn’t sure what he thought. The big bitch had said nothing of this those moons ago at the dragon pit, he expected the girl to be in Essos, or worse: dead, and gone, as so many others. He had not ever been a man of tact, of sentiment…but he could not deny the pit in his stomach, the ache in his heart. He had told her all those moons ago on the mountainside, broken and bleeding, that he did not love her. The words echoed in his ears like a painful whisper, and at once his eyes squeezed shut.

A lie if he had ever told one, and he was never a good liar.

He could not wash away the simple truth, but he could ignore it as long as possible, as long as she would allow, for both their statuses and their sakes. Besides, she hadn’t exactly come tearing through the yard or even jumped at the sight of him. _She must hate me. And no wonder._ Had she known, all this time, that he was alive? Or was she just as surprised, just as mortified? Did her heart ache as his did? How could it, when he held it in his hands and cast it away.

The distance between them, now closed, had never seemed so far.

When the stables grew quiet and he was at last alone, he sat heavily down upon a bench and held his head in his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing deeply. His other hand massaged his lame leg with fervor. After a time, his melancholy thoughts were broken by a sharp tug on his hair.

He raised his head in ire, blindly batting his hand with a grunt to get the blasted beast to leave him alone. He was answered with a derisive whinny from the stall next to him, and a heavy snort. Bloody horses. They were always on edge these days, though not without reason. Perhaps they sensed what he knew to be true: that death was inching ever closer with each passing day. He stood with effort, meaning to comfort the wretched thing as it pawed desperately at its gate.

“Aye, aye,” he cooed. “C’mere, you…” He leaned over the rail and raised a hand to the black warhorse, patting its neck, and then stopped, struck dumb yet again. “Seven fucking hells,” he exclaimed quietly, not yet ready to believe what his heart hoped.

The stallion nudged his neck with a soft whinny, and Sandor struggled to unlatch the gate and quickly enter the stall.

“Seven _fucking_ hells, it is,” he chuckled lowly. “Stranger, lad, it’s _you -_ where the _fuck_ have you been…? How did…? Seven hells. _Seven hells,_ you’re here.” Stranger nickered softly, nipping at his hair again before snorting and allowing Sandor to press his forehead against the flat of his snout. “Aye, it’s me…gods, you’re a tough old boy, aren’t you…”

It seemed the past was not done with him; not yet. 

* * *

 

“Come, come, Clegane,” drawled Thoros, spilling mead onto the counter. “Why’re you off sulking in the corner again, I was under the impression that you’d had a miraculous change of heart!” He puffed up his chest in mock piety, lowering his voice and puckering his lips. “Seven save ye, friends! In the name of the Father I charge you to get sloshed!” The two of them fell into raucous laughter, while Jorah chuckled from his place leaning against the post.

Sandor grunted, pulling deeply from his horn. “It’s better than drinking with you two pillowbiters.”

Thoros threw an arm around Beric’s shoulders. “Jealous that the only thing within ten miles willing to make love with you is that pint, are we?”

The door opened and closed with the tinkling of a bell, the wind howling lowly. Davos stepped in, stamping in place to clean his boots, a few errant flakes of snow blowing in behind him. Thoros and Beric raised their horns, shouting. 

“ _Hey, hey!_ ”

The old captain held a half hand in greeting, drawing his furs closer around his shoulders.

“For fuck’s sake, I may as well be at a fucking wedding,” grumbled Sandor.

“Hullo, sunshine.” said Davos briskly, smiling through his whiskers as he defiantly took the seat next to Sandor. “Thought I might find you lot here.”

“Only tavern with any wine left,” said Sandor, rocking his horn absentmindedly.

“What’s your problem, then, beardy?” Said a black, furry shadow from the other corner, the drunken drawling timbre of one illustrious Ed Tollet. “There’s plenty to go around, and you know what they say ‘bout northern girls,” Ed continued, looking the one on his knee up and down appreciatively as she unbuttoned his jerkin. It seemed he was eager to forget the fact that he was a celibate brother of the Night’s Watch, if it even existed anymore. The other girl stared suggestively at Sandor, grinding slightly on the Ranger’s knee.

“Don’t look now, but I think that one has eyes for ye.” Said Davos, nodding towards the girl and drinking deeply from his own horn.

Sandor sat back in the chair, facing his friend as the girl slid down and sauntered over to him. “Eyes for me wallet, more like,” he grumbled.

“Do you not like me, big man?” Purred the girl, slowly climbing and moving to straddle his lap.

Sandor regarded her, eyelids heavy. “You’re a bold lass, aren’t you?” He muttered, as she leaned forward and slowly ran her tongue along his beard, licking the drops of ale from it, up to his lips. When she leaned back, practically fluttering her eyelashes at him, his nose crinkled into a vicious snarl. “ _Fuck off, would ye?”_

She dismounted quickly, glaring over her shoulder in disgust.

He left the rest of them to it soon after without much ceremony, pulling his cloak around his shoulders and stepping out into the night, where snow gently fell upon the roads, blue and quiet under the shade of night. Torches twinkled nearby upon the battlements like stars, and the clouds drifted lazily by over head, eclipsing the moon like ships upon a calm sea. His boots sank into the deep snow as he trudged along, shivering as the bitter freeze took hold, and made for the portcullis ahead. The guards eyed him warily as he approached, but stood aside when they recognized him with bows and curt ‘Milords’.

Cold. That was the only word for it. Simple and cold. Growing up the in the Westerlands and serving in the south, he’d seen nary a flake of snow all of his thirty years. There’d been one winter, when he was nearly to small to remember (and too new, unscathed and unscarred) but the leaves had not even turned.

He walked through the courtyard at a leisurely pace, looking up at the many windows of the keep’s rotund towers, glowing against the darkness. He became aware of a presence, and looked down, not exactly surprised to see the white wolf silently matching his pace, haunting his steps. _Ghost. A fitting name._ The majestic creature prowled where he wished, these days - and more than often than not he had come to lay beside Sandor in the early mornings, as he sat whetting his blade in the yard. He said nothing to the wolf, and began the climb up the stoney stairs.

As he stood upon the battlements, looking out into the inky black abyss, he knew at once it would be yet another tarrying, sleepless, watchful night. The white wolf sniffed his hand, gave it a tentative lick, and sat stone-like beside him upon his haunches, coming up to even his lofty elbow.

Sandor sighed, and patted his head. He always was good with dogs.

_“_ And now our watch begins,” he muttered, and folded his arms against the darkness.


End file.
